You
by Sanqhian
Summary: A late night text drags Lassiter out of bed to a visibly upset Shawn, but the psychic refuses to reveal his deepest, darkest secrets. As Lassiter tries to help he soon realizes that he's grown more fond of Shawn than he cares to admit. (slash, m/m)
1. Chapter 1

The trilling of his cellphone beckoned to Carlton Lassiter, drawing him from a dream in which he'd gotten the drop on a known criminal mastermind and was in the process of accepting his award. He grumbled, gritting his teeth as he reached for a pillow on the other side of the bed, jamming it down over his head. The goal was to drown out the sound, pretend it didn't exist, but homicide refused to be ignored. Not for the first time, he wondered why people couldn't die at a more appropriate time of the day.

Blindly, Lassiter reached for the phone, his fingers groping at the nightstand. Normally he loved his job. He got a thrill out of catching bad guys and chucking them in the jail where they belonged. It was just the kind of work he was made for, and thrived on.

Even that little pipsqueak Shawn Spencer hadn't managed to ruin it for him.

Despite the fact he could be annoying at times.

And occasionally made him look like a fool.

Lassiter may have growled.

Just as his fingers found the persistent device it shut up, further souring his mood. He was about to let it go and see if he could work his way back to the celebration of his phenomenal win, when the phone vibrated in his hand. Whoever wanted to speak with him was not going to take silence as an answer.

"This had better be good," he grumbled. At this point the only two people he wouldn't completely chew out for waking him at this hour would be the chief and O'Hara.

It turned out to be neither.

Of all the people it could have been why did it have to be him?

There was two missed calls from him and now a text message, all of which Lassiter considered ignoring. What could he possibly want at this hour? What shenanigan did he feel inclined to share? Last time it was nonsensical rambling accompanied by a picture. Definitely not the sort of thing he was interested in or even cared about. He had more important things to do.

Lassiter considered returning the phone to its place on the nightstand when it vibrated again.

What could Shawn possibly want?

Rubbing a hand quickly over his eyes, Lassiter touched the screen and brought up the messages. He read the first e, scowling at the typed words.

I'm scared.

Had Shawn suffered from a nightmare or something and saw being awake at the late hour—it was creeping on midnight—a good reason to pester him? Scared of what? And why should he care? Why hadn't Shawn just contacted Gus, his as equally grating, yet slightly smarter friend? The two were thick as thieves.

The second text answered both questions and caused Lassiter to sit up in bed, his blanket falling away.

Of myself.

Scared of himself? "What exactly does he mean by that?"

As if able to hear the mumbled question another text came through.

Of hurting myself.

"What the…"

Lassiter merely stared at the words, confused, and even a bit shaken. The Shawn Spencer he knew was a jovially, joking man just this side of crazy. Sure, he was a nuisance and rubbed Lassiter the wrong way, but he very rarely displayed any questionably depressing emotions. In fact, Lassiter could count on one hand the times he'd seen a vulnerable, quiet, sad Shawn.

And he never once suspected the man capable of hurting himself. It didn't seem to be Shawn's way, not in character with his personality. It never crossed Lassiter's mind.

"And why me?" were the next words out of his mouth. Of all the people Shawn could have contacted, from his father to Gus, even O'Hara, why had he been the chosen one? What made him special?

Without fully realizing it, Lassiter typed in a reply. Where are you?

The seconds seemed to tick by while he waited for a reply. Each agonizing beat of his heart, the quiet of his house, eternity stretching before him. Lassiter's rolled, twisting in knots, a weight settling in his guts. His mind dig deep, pulling up news stories and cases of old, all in which someone had died at their own hands. Was Shawn capable of the deed?

The phone vibrated.

Lifeguard stand.

Lassiter clenched his jaw, rolling his eyes. Which one?

Psych.

A single word, what context did he take it in? Did Shawn mean he was at the stand located closest to his office or was he admitting the messages were little more than a joke, a ploy to disturb his night? For a moment he entertained the thought of falling back in bed and dragging the covers up over him. But a nagging disquiet refused to be ignored. It needles its way under his skin until he was prompted to climb out of bed and shuffle across the floor.

Discarded carelessly earlier, Lassiter grabbed up his slacks and slipped into them. He threw on a shirt, then a sweater to help keep away the autumn chill. On his way out of the bedroom he shot off another reply to Shawn, any trace of sleep now long gone.

On my way.

He made it down the stairs.

He jammed his feet into a pair of sneakers, something people might be surprised to find he owned.

He snatched up his keys.

Who knows how much time had passed before Lassiter stepped out into the cool night, mindful to lock his door. A quick check of his phone revealed a message-less screen. No reply from Shawn. He sucked in his bottom lip, making haste toward his car.

Many would have thought him crazy, completely out of his mind, running off in the middle of the night because the man who had become a thorn in his side beckoned. But buried deep inside where no one could ever possibly find it, Lassiter held tightly to a kernel of fondness for the young psychic, even though he didn't believe the psychic spiel for a second.

As he turned the key, the engine purring, Lassiter sent up a silent pray that he wouldn't arrive too late. Just the mere thought sprung an ache in his chest the likes of which he'd never known.

"He'll be ok," Lassiter said with conviction. Then he quietly added, "he has to be."


	2. Chapter 2

As he navigated the dark city streets, the traffic much lighter than the bustling daylight hours, yet far from vacant, Lassiter contemplated turning on the siren. The wail of an emergency would clear his path of any obstacles and get him to his destination faster. Though to be far, he was making decent timing even if it felt like he was racing against the clock. He knew as many routes to the Psych office as he did to the precinct, not that he'd ever admit it to a living soul.

Or a dead one, for that matter.

Some things were best kept a secret.

When Lassiter finally arrived, he spied a light glowing in the window. Had Shawn changed his mind, was he now residing in the office? He quickly departed the car, phone in pocket, and headed for the space rented by Shawn and his foolish friend; he never understood why someone as smart as Burton Guster would risk his career for the antics of a friend. As soon as he tried the door he discovered it locked. For good measure he knocked, not fully expecting an answer.

He wasn't disappointed.

Concerned, he went around to peer through the big bay window that overlooked the beach. What if Shawn had locked himself away inside and was now currently laying slumped over his desk or dead on the floor? Lassiter's gut twisted at the thought. The younger man may have a knack for getting on his nerves, but he'd developed a fondness for Spencer, though somewhat begrudgingly. Besides, he liked the older Spencer, Shawn's dad, he was a good guy, had been a one hell of a cop, and Lassiter would hate to see him broken up by the loss of his boy.

O'Hara, too, she'd definitely be upset.

And if any of them found out about Shawn reaching out to him, well, they'd never forgive him.

Lassiter turned toward the darkened beach. Waves crashed along the sandy shore, otherwise it was a spooky kind of quiet, sending a shiver down his spine. A sense of unease had settled on his shoulders, weighing heavily. What if he arrived too late?

Stop thinking that way. Everything will be fine. Everything will be okay. Spencer would never actually hurt himself. He struck out for the beach, eyeing the nearby lifeguard stand. Hell, this is probably some cruel practical joke he's playing on me. Just another way for him to annoy me. But even as the thought crossed his mind Lassiter knew it wasn't true.

On a whim, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Spencer's number, the likes of which he shouldn't possess, having acquired it from snooping on O'Hara's phone; something he wasn't exactly proud of and still didn't understand the motivation behind. He waited to hear for the answering ring. It never came. Maybe Spencer silenced it.

Or maybe he decided to drown himself in the ocean.

The morbid idea took his breath away, causing him to falter and nearly fall into the sand. No, he needed to believe that Spencer was fine. And if for some fucked up reason this was a horrible prank, well, he'd figure out what to do with Spencer at that point. But he failed to believe Spencer capable of such cruelty. Shawn was many things, a monster wasn't one of them. He cared about people, even if he did tend to be annoying in the process. Shawn had a good heart.

He made it to the stairs and started up, knowing a horrifying scene might await him. Lassiter stopped at the door, letting out a slow breath. In his line of work he'd seen more than his fair share of corpses and blood, neither of which prepared him for the possibility of it ever being someone he cared for. He placed his hand on the doorknob, twisting, and sending up a silent prayer that when the door swung open Spencer would jump out at him, giggling and making a fool of him. Yes, let this be a joke because it's better than the alternative. Even if it left him pissed off, at least there would be relied in knowing Spencer was fine, that he was okay, alive and breathing.

Lassiter pushed. The door hinges let out a plaintive squeak. Darkness waited beyond, forcing him to pull up the flashlight on his phone, having left his service light back in the car. He slowly panned it over the space, acutely aware of each beat his heart took, the sound of his own breath coming out ragged. He hadn't felt this on edge in quite some time, perhaps not since O'Hara had been in trouble up on the clock face. Lassiter forced down the memory. They won then, he'd win now, too.

"Spencer?" He said.

But the space was empty of people, living or otherwise. His heart sank. Where was Shawn? He scanned his phone to see if he'd somehow missed a messaged. Nothing. So he shot off one of his own, seeking the whereabouts of the trouble younger man.

Lassiter waited, stepping back and closing the door. Again, his gaze fell on the only water as it pushed against the shoreline. Lightning flashed off in the distance. Seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. No response came to his text. His anxiety grew. Should he call someone else, he wondered, like the older Spencer or maybe O'Hara? He could call Burton, see if Shawn was with him. But even as Lassiter scanned through his contacts he delayed in picking any of them. Shawn had to be around here somewhere, right?

Lassiter scanned the darkened beach, knowing that despite the curfew people liked to come out here in the night to drink and do other things best suited for behind closed doors. This night, however, was eerily quiet in that regard. He was about to give up and try the Psych off again when he spotted a dark shape in the sand a short distance away. Spencer.

It was still.

Lassiter took off at a run, well, as best as he could in the sand. The shape was much too close to the breaking tide and appeared to be prone. For all he knew it could be little more than a chunk of driftwood. His heart told him otherwise. The salt air stung his eyes as he drew closer, the shape becoming more pronounced. It was definitely a person.

"Spencer," he yelled. There was still no movement. "Dammit."

After what seemed like forever, almost like he was running down a cartoon hallway, Lassiter reached the form. It was a person. One that was laying face down in the sand. He crouched, his mouth having gone dry, and feared the worst. I'm too late. I'm too fucking late. He grabbed the man by the shoulders and turned him over, trying to mentally prepare himself to see Shawn's face.

But it wasn't him.

Eyes fluttered and the stench of alcohol walloped Lassiter. The bum cursed at him and shook him loose. Lassiter rocked back on his heels, now more uncertain than ever.

Where was Shawn?


	3. Chapter 3

Halfhearted and defeated, head hanging down, Lassiter headed back to his car, his mind racing. None of it made sense, from the plea of help to his inability to locate Spencer. Something was a amiss, and to make matters worse he couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that the evening had yet to reveal the sinister truth. This was a sensation he hated, the gnawing worry in his gut, it rarely led him astray and in his years as a detective he'd learned to trust it.

Trouble awaited him.

Lassiter paused at the boardwalk, retrieving his phone from his pocket with hopes he'd find a fresh text. Nothing. So he pulled up the brief exchange, reading it again and again just to be sure he hadn't missed anything. By the time he was done Lassiter could recite the conversation like a poem. He hit the little phone icon, calling Spencer.

Nothing.

"What the hell," he grumbled, less than pleased. "Where the fuck are you?"

Maybe he could run by the precinct, but what good would that do him? Lassiter resumed the stroll to his sedan, chewing over his next move, thinking it might be a good idea to call Henry or O'Hara, one of them might know where to find the wayward psychic. But did he want to worry them? Lassiter's mood soured more, usually he liked to make swift decisions, this uncertainty was annoying. He hated it. And he hated even more that his next move wasn't clear. At least with a murder he knew what steps to take, what questions to ask, where to look, all that jazz.

Should he run by Burton's place, see if the two of them were sitting on the couch having a laugh at his expense?

Lassiter chewed his bottom lip, torn.

"Dammit, Spencer," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. Right now he should have been chasing criminals in his sleep, putting the bad guys behind bars even in his off time. But instead he was skulking around in the dark and for what, a wild goose chase? As he neared his car the concern that sent him racing across the city to the beach began to simmer, bubbling into anger. What right did Spencer have in treating him this way? Yeah, sure, their friendship, relationship, whatever the fuck it was, had been rocky and full of pranks and puns and jokes, mostly aimed at him, but Spencer was a good guy, through and through. Even Lassiter couldn't deny that.

His sedan came into sight, still parked outside the Psych office. His gaze shifted to the big window and the light glowing within. Maybe he should break in, it's not like he'd get in trouble, he had probable cause; the worry for a colleague. He nearly headed in that direction, even so much as taking a few steps that way. There were rooms he couldn't see from the window or the entryway, Shawn could be lurking in one of them, secluded in the dark, out of range of prying eyes.

But something brought Lassiter up short, his gaze shifting back to his sedan.

The breeze coming off the ocean was cool, caressing his cheek like a lover, and whispering in his ear. He licked his lips, clenching and releasing his hands as he neared the sedan. On the outside it looked normal, ordinary, but there was something...wrong about it. The shadows inside were all wrong. His pace began to quicken until he was nearly jogging. In a blink he yanked open the passenger side door, his breath catching in his throat, or was it his heart that he was choking on?

"Spencer," the name burbled out, gruff, full of emotion.

The younger man sat there, a faint smile on his pale lips. His eyelids fluttered as he turned to look at Lassiter. "Lassie," he said, his voice a whisper. "Good ole Lassie."

Lassiter crouched, a hand on Shawn's thigh, it was the closest he could bring himself to touching... "What have you done?"

Shawn didn't answer, his eyes closing. The rise and fall of his chest was subtle.

"Spencer," he barked, giving Shawn's leg a shake. He was acutely aware of every beat of his heart, trying to comprehend the scene before him. The idea of Spencer playing tricks on him went right out the window and even left him with a touch of guilt, especially considering the seriousness of the situation. "Shawn, open your eyes."

He waited a breath, then put more authority in his voice. "Shawn, open your damn eyes, do you hear me?"

Shawn mumbled, following orders. "Hm?"

"What did you do?"

His gaze shifted to his lap where his arms rested. He lifted one feebly, that ghostly smile appearing again, then let it fall back. He shrugged. "I tried," he said. "I tried..."

"We're going to the hospital," Lassiter said, getting up and closing the door. He practially ran around the front of the car, slipping in behind the steering wheel within one breath. No sooner had he shoved the keys into the ignition than he felt Shawn's hand on his leg.

"Please... don't..."

His eyes grew wide. "Shawn, you need help."

There were tears in the psychic's eyes. He shook his head. "Please."

Lassiter swallowed, his throat dry, his hands tight on the steering wheel. "I can't... I can't help you, Shawn. Getting you to the hospital, it's the only option. We have to go, do you understand me? They're the only ones who can save you." The interior of the sedan smelled of blood, fresh, and it was hard to tell how much Shawn had lost at this point, but judging by his inability to stay awake, his pallor, Lassiter knew they were running out of time. Why, he thought, why the hell would Shawn ever do something so... drastic, so final?

Better yet, what drove him to it?

"I'm not going to let you die, Shawn," he spoke with conviction. "I don't care what I have to do." He threw the car in reverse. "I'm not losing you."

But even as he tore out of the parking lot, Lassiter wondered if he'd be able to get to the hospital in time, even with the sirens blaring. With the back of his hand he swiped away the building tears. Please, please let me be in time.


	4. Chapter 4

Water flowed over the rim of the glass, splashing down over his hand and into the sink. The chill was enough, at least momentarily, to shake Lassiter from his dismal thoughts. He shut off the tap, tilting the glass to empty out some of the contents, then placed it on the counter. Reaching for a towel, he dried off his hand. A quick peek toward the window revealed the growing light of dawn, the glow tugging at the weariness he felt. The night hadn't exactly gone as planned. When he'd fallen into bed that's where he expected to stay, curled up the covers chasing bad guys in his dreams. Instead he'd spent it skulking around in the dark and finished it up with a trip to the emergency room. After that, well, he'd brought Spencer back to his house because what else was he going to do with the foolish man? Drop him at his father's door, ring the bell, and beat a hasty retreat? Though a slight more appealing idea than tucking Spencer into his spare bedroom, Lassiter realized such a move would do more harm than good. After all, in a time of need Spencer reached out to him.

And the reason why, that was a question Lassiter wanted the answer to. Why him, of all the people in the city? Why not Guster or O'Hara or even the chief? Why did it come down to him?

His gaze drifted toward the stairs. Up there, much closer than he ever wanted, was the one man who managed to drive him bonkers every day. Why was he catering to a man who often made him out to be a fool? _Because he's also done his best to help me out, whether I want to admit it or not. There's no denying... _Lassiter ran a hand over his face letting out a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back against the counter. Though he dealt with death on a nearly daily basis, this was somewhat outside his field of expertise.

_Maybe I should call someone..._

Instead, Lassiter picked up the glass and headed for the stairs, making his way to the second floor. The house was silent, if he chose to ignore the loud beat of his heart. Was his breathing ragged?

At the doorway to the spare bedroom, which was full of boxes shoved up against the far wall, most of them containing work related papers, he spied the prone figure in the bed that appeared to have been shoved haphazardly into the space. He rarely had visitors, never-mind the sort that stayed overnight. Spencer lay propped up against a number of pillows, the lower portion of his left arm wrapped up nice and tight in white bandages, the sight of which pleased Lassiter. He half expected Spencer to tear it off and start picking at the stitches. Sure, it seemed a nonsensical thing to do, but then again, he never thought Spencer capable of hurting himself to being with. This was definitely unfamiliar territory.

Lassiter cleared his throat, prompting Spencer to look his way. "Brought you some water." He held up the glass.

"Thanks."

An awkward silence threatened to settle between them.

"So... Do you want to talk about it?" Lassiter jumped right in. He remained in the doorway, having gone no further, still holding the beverage.

"No."

"Well, guess what? You don't get to make that choice," Lassiter growled, a touch of anger seeping into his voice. "For some reason, one of which I'm hoping you'll disclose to me, you reached out to me, of all people. Not your best friend. Not my partner. Not your dad or the chief. Me," he said, poking himself in the chest. "And so I leave the comfort of my own home to go traipsing around in the dark to find your sorry ass and there you are, in my car, bleeding from, what?" With each word he spoke more vehemently. "A self-inflicted cut? An attempt at..." he nearly choked on the next word. "Suicide? Tell me what the hell is going on, Shawn, or I swear, the very next thing I'm going to do is call your dad. Do you want that?"

It didn't seem like Spencer was going to speak, but when he did it was barely more than a whisper. "No."

"Then tell me what the hell is going on. You owe me answers."

Spencer rubbed at the bandage, running his right hand up and down the length of it, his gaze focused on the foot of the bed. Lassiter refused to budge, making himself an impenetrable force, taking away Spencer's option to jump out of bed and flee the room. Tired or not, he was willing to wait out the younger man, even if it meant calling in sick to work; which was almost unheard of for him. _Will my call be enough to raise a red flag with O'Hara and Chief Vick? Will one of them come over here to check up on me? If they do, what exactly do I tell them? Do I lie for Spencer?_

"I..." He massaged the back of his neck. "Can we talk about this another time?"

"No. Now."

"What does it matter?" he finally said. "You won't believe me anyway. I can tell you've already formed an opinion and no matter what I say, it's not going to be enough to convince you otherwise."

"Maybe you shouldn't make snap judgements, Spencer."

Spencer met his gaze. "Maybe you should take your own advice."

The bark of laughter that bubbled out of him surprised even Lassiter. "Seriously? Need I reiterate that _you_ were the one that sent me texts asking for help. _You_ were the one found in my car bleeding from a cut to the wrist, one serious enough to require stitches. So out with it, Shawn, why did you hurt yourself?"

"Lassiter..."

"Answer me. Why did you hurt yourself?"

"Lassie..."

"Tell me."

"Cartlon," there was an edge to his voice. He balled his hands into fists.

Lassiter continued to push, demanding to know the truth. "Why are you trying to kill yourself, Shawn?"

Fire burned in Spencer's eyes, he punched himself in the thigh, yelling out the truth. "Because of you!"


	5. Chapter 5

_Because of you. _

The words echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced by his usual voice of reason. After the declaration, which stunned him more than finding Shawn with a bleeding self-inflicted wound, Lassiter had stood in the doorway, unsure of what to say, words failing him. The silence that settled between them became deafening, verging on unbearable, and at some point Lassiter vaguely recalled moving. He may have left the glass of water on the dresser or maybe he'd settled it on the bedside table as he'd originally intended. It was all a bit foggy. Had Shawn said his name as he turned and left the room? How had he made it down the stairs and into the living room without tripping over his own feet on the way? Autopilot? When he sank onto the sofa, practically perched on the edge, he rested his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

_Because of you._

Had anyone ever done something so drastic, so... Crazy, because of him? Lassiter swallowed, finding his throat dry. He'd pushed, desperate for the reasoning behind Shawn's falling apart, wanting to know why it was _him _that Shawn chose to reach out to, and now, given the motive, _why him? _Shaky, Lassiter ran his hand through his hair. What exactly did he do now? His gaze shifted toward the staircase. Shawn hadn't followed after him, it wasn't like one of those scenes in a movie, the sort he'd claim to never watch in order to protect his reputation, and he wondered what the younger man was doing? In a fleeting moment of panic, Lassiter nearly jumped off the couch when a skittering thought found him afraid that Shawn might try to finish what he'd set out to do earlier that evening. No... He wouldn't. Right?

_Because of you._

How was he supposed to scrub that statement from his mind? Sure, they hadn't exactly ever seen eye to eye since their first meeting, but had he truly been hard enough on the weirdo to drive him to... Lassiter frowned, clenching his jaw. No, he refused to believe it. He was only hard on Shawn because... Why? He was annoyed by Shawn's many antics? Embarrassed by the way Shawn managed to always solve whatever case crossed his path while making it look effortless? And he certainly didn't believe the psychic shtick for even a second. Such things just didn't exist.

_Because of you._

But he was to blame nonetheless. He let out a shuddering sigh. Perhaps... Perhaps this whole mess was far outside his expertise. Lassiter reached for his cell phone, planning to do something he should have done from the beginning, from the moment he received the first text or while he was out trolling the beach, and definitely while he was at the hospital waiting for Shawn to get stitched up. The number he pulled up twisted his stomach into knots. Death was a big part of his life, and he'd broken bad news to a number of people over the years, though to hear it from O'Hara he lacked any touch of empathy when making the deliveries, but this was surprisingly hard. His finger hovered over the call button.

The sound of footsteps drew his focus back to the staircase. Shawn appeared at the top looking haunted and drained. There was still blood on his shirt, on his pants, and a serious lack of color in his face. Clutching the railing, he began to make his way down, but faltered halfway, his balance unsteady. In a flash, Lassiter was off the couch and up the remaining steps to catch Shawn before he tumbled down and did more damage. With his arms around Shawn, closer than he'd truly ever expected to be, Lassiter's breath caught in his throat. Their eyes met. Held. His heart skipped a beat.

Freaked, Lassiter let him go. Shawn fell to the stairs with a thud, his hand still on the banister.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter said, his voice rough, husky, and sounding entirely foreign to his own ears.

"I came to find you." Shawn hugged himself. He looked so small, so vulnerable that Lassiter found himself wanting to gather him close. The urge was so strong he forced himself a step down, increasing the distance between them. _What the hell is going on_? _Why do I feel the need to comfort him? He did this. He made this choice. I am not responsible for his actions. No matter what he says. _"I felt you deserved an explanation."

How much of the night had he spent searching for a reason, an answer to why prompted Shawn to... And yet, he retreated, taking another two steps down away from Shawn. This whole evening was a mess, his world turned this way and twisted that way until he wasn't sure if anything made sense anymore. From a good day of work to dreaming about a killer case to... This, whatever this was exactly. "No," he shook his head. "Whatever you have to say, I no longer want to hear it."

"I'm sorry," Shawn apologized. "For what I said."

Lassiter held up his hand. "Stop, Spencer. It doesn't matter anymore. Whatever motive made you..." He gestured with his hand, "This is all on you, and this is not my issue to deal with." Before he lost his composure he turned away from Shawn and made for his phone, dropped on the floor when he saw Shawn falling. Retrieving the device, he hit the button he'd been too afraid to mere seconds ago. The phone rang on the other end. It was late, or early depending on how one chose to look at the hour.

"Carlton." Shawn's voice was weak, frail.

He ignored the plea.

"Who are you calling?"

"Someone who can help you." There was a click on the other end, a groggy voice demanding to know what audacity the caller possessed to be calling at such a time. "I'm sorry, sir," Lassiter started, cutting through a couple of curses and one rather unpleasant threat. "This call is an emergency, of sorts, and it's in regards to your son, Shawn." At the mention of his son all trace of slumber vanished from Henry's voice. "Yes, he's alive and breathing, but I refuse to say he's okay. Look, he's here at my house and I really do think you should come as quick as possible. In all honesty, I should have called you sooner and for that I apologize, but please, make it quick. This is serious." There was another curse, the sound of rustling cloth, and a promise to be there in the blink of an eye. Lassiter didn't even have to end the call, the older Spencer doing it for him. Lassiter turned to address Shawn...

...Only to find the younger man had gathered enough strength to finish with the staircase.

He was out the door.

"Shawn!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Author Note: **I apologize for the delayed updated. I had a deadline to meet that coincided with the busiest weekend of the year at work and then found out my sweet pupper has cancer. Needless to say, it's been a bit of a whirlwind.

* * *

Lassiter dropped the phone, not caring in the least about it, and raced out the door after Spencer. His heart pounded and for the briefest moment he regretted making the call, even if it had been the right thing to do. Despite all the things he'd faced in his line of work, he was willing to admit, at least to himself, that he was somewhat out of his comfort zone, unsure of how to handle this situation. No one he knew personally had ever tried to take their own life, and certainly not because of him. What could he possibly have done to drive Spencer to such a place? Outside, he paused on the porch, quickly scanning his yard in an effort to spot his wayward charge. The expanse of grass was empty. Lassiter cursed under his breath. Seriously, hadn't he just spent all that time trying to find Spencer at the beach and he was gone again? He practically jumped down the steps, starting to the right, then turning to the left, torn by indecision. Which way would Spencer have taken off in? And what was he going to say to Henry when he arrived expecting to find his son?

"Crap," he grumbled.

* * *

His mind raced, his thoughts a jumbled mess, things mingling in a way that made absolutely no sense. What the hell had he been thinking, sending that text to Lassiter and asking for help? Everything, every single thing was a fucking mess. Stalking down the sidewalk, gaze cast down at the ground, he rubbed a hand up and down his arm, probably looking like a drug addict coming off a high and in need of a fix. This whole thing had gotten out of hand, spiraled completely out of control. Why Lassiter, why had it been his number he punched into his phone and not Gus or even O'Hara? He could have picked anyone, absolutely anyone, but…_ Maybe it's because Lassie was on my mind at the time. But then again, he's always on my mind and that's part of the problem. I need to find a way to get him off of it._ His fingers brushed the bandage, the feeling of the wrap bringing him up short. _And then there's this little gem._ His stomach twisted, tying itself in knots, and he tasted the acidic sting of bile. Shawn sat hard on the curb, tears stinging his eyes and pleading to be let free.

How was he supposed to make everything better?

This, this was the sort of thing he couldn't take back. Yeah, the wound would heal, the stitches would come out, but the scar would always be there, a constant reminder of the night he fell so far he saw no other way out. And to others, they'd see it and question him every time he expressed even a touch of sorrow. He could already imagine the concern etched in the features of their faces. He could hear the anger in his dad's voice, and his mom, she'd want to sit down and talk it out with him.

But what did he say to her? How did he help her to understand the pain he felt when he barely grasped it himself? The way it circled around his chest, tightening with each breath until he was left gasping for air. It was like being devoured by a numbing ache.

"There you are," Lassiter growled, waltzing in his direction. At this point in their friendship, Shawn was used to seeing Lassie angry, especially when it came to him. But this was a different kind of anger; he sensed an undercurrent of sorrow. _I've fucked up everything. There's no way in hell he's ever going to look at me the way that I wish he would, which come to think of it, is sort of how he looks at his gun when he's cleaning it. _Shawn frowned, tightening his jaw. _There is something seriously wrong with me. Who wants to be looked at the way a man looks at his gun? Then again, considering the person in question... _"Where the hell do you get off thinking you can just run out the door on me?" Lassiter asked, an edge to his words.

Shawn flinched, drawing his knees up and hugging himself, his hands resting on his shoulders. He averted his gaze, refusing to look at Lassiter. How was he supposed to figure anything out when the man who was the source of all his recent dilemmas was standing right beside him? Or was it more like looming over him? "How could you call my dad?" he wondered aloud. "Of all the people in the world..."

"What else was I supposed to do, Shawn?" started Lassiter, his voice creeping up a notch, but a heartbeat later he sighed and sank down on the curb at Shawn's side. "This... None of this makes any sense to me. I..." The rest of the sentence was left hanging in the air between them. Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn glanced at Lassiter who was rubbing the back of his neck, face turned slightly away as though he were almost afraid to look at him while he spoke. Where was the man with all the confidence, the cocky detective with the presence that engulfed the police station even when he was sitting silently at his desk? "Just, help me understand this, Shawn." _Every time he says my name. _"Please, can you at least do that for me? Murder, criminals, liars, even the antics of you and Gus, those are things I can handle, but this?" He gestured at the empty street, but Shawn got the gist of what he meant. "What could I have ever done to you to make you do this, Shawn? What did I do that was so bad you felt the need to hurt yourself?"

A myriad of responses went through Shawn's mind, everything from a sarcastic quip to a liar to the straight up truth; which one did he pick? What exactly did he say in this moment? How did he choose his words carefully enough to keep from hurting the one person in the world that meant more to him than even Gus? Not that anyone even that, not in the least, it was the one secret he kept from everyone, and he tended to consider himself an open book. But deep beneath all the laughter, the jokes, the smiles, the crazy hum of his life, there was a heart aching, yearning for what remained just out of reach.

For something considered unobtainable.

And now, thinking about it, the numbness began to descend upon him again, his eyes burning as tears began to well. How had he become so lost? Little by little, of course, a bit here and there as the days played out and he spent more time in the shadow of the man he loved. The man he admired from afar while being easily within reach. Like right now, the two of them sitting there, ever so lightly brushing against each other. That was the moment it happened, the second something in Shawn told him to make his move. Without thinking it through, acting purely on impulse, unaware he was doing it until... He reached out, sinking his fingers into Lassiter's hair, something he'd imagined doing many times before, and forced the surprised man to look in his direction, and then he was kissing him, their lips meeting.


	7. Chapter 7

To say he was surprised would have been an understatement. After all these years Lassiter was used to the tricks and stunts Spencer pulled, all his crazy antics and the mayhem they caused. But this… It was one thing to have Spencer grab him the way he did, another thing entirely when it came to the seconds immediately following. He never in a million years expected the kiss, completely caught off-guard. Yet, there it was, Spencer's lips against his, and… Dare he admit it wasn't bad? Dare he… No. He placed a hand against Spencer's chest and gently pushed him away, slightly uneasy with where things were going. The whole night had become one big mess. He should have ignored his phone when it first went off, should have never gone out looking for Spencer when he read the text pleading for help.

_And then how might have things ended?_

With his subtle rejection, the kiss, little more than a tentative brush of lips, Spencer pulled away, even going so far as to scoot a few inches over on the curb. The action spoke louder than any words, especially when Spencer wrapped his arms around himself, hands resting on his shoulders, and dropped his chin, avoiding eye contact. Neither of them spoke. What was he supposed to say in a moment like this? How did he handle the situation without making matters worse? He didn't possess the finesse O'Hara did, and with Spencer already in a vulnerable state he feared the wrong phrase might send him toppling over the edge.

_"Because of you!"_

The statement bounced around in his brain, had been playing Ping-Pong in his skull since Spencer uttered it, and now Lassiter was finally beginning to understand what he meant. And for the second time that night Spencer managed to steal the oxygen from his lungs. How was he supposed to react, to process, when he spent most of his time considering Spencer an unneeded nuisance in his life? The other part of the time, which was rather minuscule, he saw the abilities the younger man possessed when it came to solving crimes. Henry had done a damn good job with him, and it often baffled Lassiter why Spencer played games the way he did instead of becoming a bona fide cop. He'd likely ace the exams and pass as the top of his class. He'd, of course, never admit this to any of his colleagues, no matter how much they praised Spencer. Some things he planned to keep locked deep inside.

Lassiter cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. One of them had to break the since before it grew increasingly awkward, though it was already borderline uncomfortable. What the hell did he say? "I…uh…hm."

Way to fail, Carlton. A piece of the puzzle slipped into place, the sort of thing he should have realized earlier had he not been preoccupied with Spencer's attempted suicide and then having him run off. The kiss, the feathery touch of Spencer's lips against his, it brought an answer, overshadowing all the questions he'd entertained since the first text hours ago._ Me. He hurt himself because of me. We're sitting here on this curb because of me. What the hell did I do? How was I to know that while he was frustrating me and getting on my nerves that he was falling…_ Lassiter coughed, refusing to even think the words. No. He can't… But what if he does? How am I going to handle this without making it worse? He s already in a fragile place. One more nudge, will it send him careening over the edge? Where is Henry?

Lassiter rubbed his hands together, then massaged the back of his neck. When Spencer sniffled, he peered over to find Spencer trying to conceal, quite poorly, the fact that he was crying. The sight of tears on the normally jubilant man's face broke something inside of him. Lassiter reached over, quickly scooting across the space between them, and put his arm around Spencer's shoulders, drawing him close. He opted to remain silent while Spencer let it out. He'd suffered a broken heart before, he knew how soul sucking it could be.

Have I left him heart broken? Have I even decided how indeed about all of this? Do I… No, I can't possibly like him the same way. It just… While Lassiter could count on one hand the number of times he'd dated seriously, he'd never, not with a guy, never even considered it. How could he, and with Spencer, and…

A red truck pulled up across the street and Henry jumped out of the driver's seat. "Here you are," he said, stalking in the direction without even bothering to check both ways. The neighborhood was pleasantly quiet, a change from the hustle and bustle of the day. "I went by the house and neither of you were there."

"Sorry, we had a bit of a disagreement," Lassiter said.

Spencer stood abruptly, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "For…that. For tonight. For everything." Without another word, he made his way to his father's truck looking every bit like a chastised child. Lassiter resisted the urge to call after him, wondering why he impulsively wanted Spencer to stay; hadn't he called Henry for a reason?

He mimicked Spencer, getting up off the curb, and dusted the dirt from his pants. "You'll go easy on him, won't you? He's had a r9ugh night."

"That he caused himself," Henry countered. Whatever anger might have boiled beneath the surface seemed to fade away, Henry's gaze trailing after his son. He turned to Lassiter, sorrow clear as day in his eyes. "Where did I go wrong with him? Have I pushed him too hard, because he was a great kid, inquisitive, creative, could have really made something of himself."

He has, but Lassiter kept the thought private.

Henry clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for answering his cry for help, I appreciate it. Baffles the mind why he picked you over me or Juliet."

"Or Gus."

Henry shook his head. "Gus, I can see him passing on Gus. The two of them have shared so much, something like this would cause a fracture in their friendship. Nah, I think he made the right choice with you."

_Do you know? Do you have any idea how your boy feels about me?_ Lassiter shrugged. "It's the least I could do."

"Well, thanks again. I'll take it from here. Thanks for the call." He started back toward his truck. "Goodnight, Carlton."

"Uh, yeah, same," he replied lamely, standing there like a fool. He remained in place as Henry started the engine and pulled away, a part of him wishing Spencer would hop out and race back to him, and where had that desire come from? _The kiss. Maybe it was a peck, an illusion of a kiss, but…_ Lassiter scowled, shoving the thought deep inside where it belonged. He turned to head home where maybe he'd manage to get a few hours of sleep before his shift started.

The entire way he entertained thoughts of Spencer.

_Shawn._

It was absolutely impossible. Right? He couldn't have feelings for Spencer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Note: **I do apologize for the delay. I lost my beloved dog and my great-aunt within 2 weeks of each other. Just been a depressed couch potato. Getting back to my writing now. I've missed it.

* * *

The silence in the cab of his father's truck was deafening and with each passing second it grew more uncomfortable. Shawn anticipated a lecture, a tongue lashing, his father's voice heavy with disappointment, and right about now he'd have taken anything, even a disapproving scowl or a tsking with a shake of the finger. Anything would have been better than being left alone with his thoughts as his father drive them down the all too familiar roads leading to his childhood home. Of course, it didn't surprise him, given his actions, that his dad wanted to keep him close, somewhere easy to keep an eye on him. Shawn rested his head against the window, wondering if he'd cry, wondering if he'd opt to tell dad the truth or not, wondering how it all got so quickly out of hand. Was this how love was supposed to be? Confusing and painful?

Wasn't it supposed to be rainbows and butterflies and all that jazz, or was he being misled?

They slowed to a stop at an intersection not too far from home. There were no other cars around, the streets empty, people just starting to stir as the start of the day approached. Shawn shifted in his seat, waiting for the journey to resume. With each second that passed, however, in which they remained in place, he grew more anxious, the beat of his heart ratchetting up. He tried to peer at his father without looking directly at his father, curious what was going through the man's mind. His dad liked chastising him, so what was he holding his tongue now, of all times?

Shawn rubbed his thumb on the door handle. He sucked in his bottom lip, biting down on it. Should he say something? Should he get the ball rolling? If he could find the courage to admit his feelings to Lassiter, why not his father? What did he have to fear, he tended to disappoint his father, another notch on the wall wouldn't make a big difference, right?

"Dad…" his voice cracked. He licked his lips, then cleared his throat. He shifted again.

Henry cut him off. "Why, Shawn? That's all I really want to know, why? What could possibly be so bad that this was the answer you came to?"

"I…" Shawn picked began to pick at the bandage. "It was…impulse."

"Impulse?" The word was spoken with edge.

The tone hit a nerve. "Yes," Shawn snapped, slamming a fist into his thigh. Why was he so easily aggravated lately? Why did he constantly feel the need to bark at everyone in defense of a foolish action? A stupid mistake? "I was in the office and there was a box cutter on Gus's desk and…"

"And your first thought was to cut yourself? To…try killing yourself?" He said the last part quietly.

By now the familiar burn of tears seared his eyes. He clenched his jaw, digging his fingers into the fabric of his pant leg. "It happened so fast, okay? I picked it up and… Then I was bleeding."

The silence threatened to gain a new hold. Shawn considered bolting, just jumping out of the truck and bolting for the house or racing off into the darkness. _Everything is snowballing. Everything is going wrong._ He harshly scrubbed away a tear, remaining rooted in place. When his father reached out to take his hand, Shawn jumped, startled.

"Shawn, whatever is going on, whatever is eating away at you inside, you can share with me," Henry said, his voice surprisingly touching. "I'm always going to be here for you, Shawn. No matter what."

When he spoke, Shawn practically whispered. "What if I'm afraid to tell you?"

"Why would you be afraid?"

Shawn looked at him, their gazes locking. They were familiar eyes, perhaps a bit more wrinkled in the corners, but definitely the steady gaze of his father, only now tainted with sorrow. He'd managed to hurt his father. _Twist the knife in my heart a little more._

"I… It's Lassiter."

Henry frowned, his brow furrowed. "What's he done now? Is he making trouble for you at the precinct? I can talk with Vick, get things smoothed over, but…" He shook his head. "You two seemed mildly chummy a short while ago. Maybe I'm missing something. And why did you call Lassiter, anyway? Why not Gus or Juliet or even me?"

"I…"

"Out with it, Shawn."

He wrapped his fingers around the door handle, preparing for a quick escape if this truth bomb went wrong. The world around them seemed to slow, though without much movement it was hard to explain the phenomenon. He'd never been so scared in his life. "Dad, there's something I haven't told you. Or even mom. In fact, Gus is the only one who's known all this time and I can't thank him enough for keeping my secret."

"Shawn, whatever it is, it can't be worth this," Henry said, tapping the bandage. "Even if you killed someone, your life is still worth something."

"You're going to be disappointed."

"Try me."

His grip on the door handle tightened further. He tore his gaze from his father, staring out the front window. This night was changing every aspect of his life. When he'd awakened that morning he would have laughed if someone suggested he'd try taking his life, or Gus finally getting his wish and him speaking his truth to Lassiter, and now confessing the same truth to his father.

"Dad, the thing of it is, I'm…" He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Why had it been easier to tell Lassiter than his father? _Because I'm afraid of being disowned. I'd rather have my heart broken than have my father turn me away out of disgust. But clearly it's gotten to be too much for me to handle._ "I can't keep living this way. It's destroying me. And if you don't want to ever see me again, fine, I get it, I don't blame you, but at least I'll have given it voice and it won't be this darkness between us anymore."

Henry squeezed his hand. "Shawn, slow down. Take a breath. I've never seen you this way, and I hate to admit it, but you're starting to truly scare me."

"I love him," he blurted.

"Love who?"

"Lassiter. I'm gay and I love Lassiter."


	9. Chapter 9

Shawn could have sworn that as soon as the words were free, his secret given life, his heart stopped and the world around him froze. Panic crept along the avenues of his veins and pinged his nerves until he felt ready to explode. It was one thing to admit his adoration to the very man who made him feel alive and another thing entirely to tell his father, the man he'd been disappointing for years. He held his breath, waiting for his dad to say something disparaging, to make him feel like the bandage on his wrist was the right way to go.

_Don't go there. I know it's hard, but is _that _really ever the answer?_

As the silence seemed to stretch on forever Shawn's grip further tightened on the door handle, to the point he feared he might snap it. The cab was suffocating him. He needed to get out. He needed to breathe or he was likely to pass out. The edges of his vision were already blurring, darkening, and a wave nausea swept over him. Before he realized he was moving, Shawn threw open the car door, vaguely aware of unbuckling his seatbelt. He stumbled out, only to fall to his knees, rough pavement biting into the palms of his hands. He gasped for oxygen, drawing it into his lungs like a man who'd been drowning.

_Maybe in a way I have been._

"Shawn!" Henry exclaimed, making his way around the front of the truck. "Shawn, what's wrong?"

Tears wet his cheeks, dripping off Shawn's chin as he remained on the ground, fighting the urge to curl in the fetal position. How could it be that his life seemed to make sense yesterday and was completely falling apart now? Yesterday there'd been laughter. Now…

A comforting hand placed on his shoulder, Henry was there at his side, down on his knees. Nothing was said as Henry gathered Shawn to him and held him tight, closer than Shawn could ever recall his dad having held him before; which served to break him even more. He gripped his father's arm like a life preserver. What a sight they must have provided for anyone willing to peep out their windows.

"Shawn, it's okay," he finally said. Henry rubbed a hand up and down his back. "What you think has been a big secret this whole time is something I've always known. I was waiting for you to come to me, for you to feel comfortable enough to tell me."

"Wait, what?" Shawn pulled away enough to look his father in the eye. "How did…what… I don't…" Having spent years, decades as an officer Henry was skilled in reading body language and tone of voice, amongst other things, all of which he'd passed along to him in hopes he'd follow. Perhaps in his own way he had, too, because in that split second, despite the initial confusion, the moment their eyes met the final piece fell I to place. "Mom?"

"Yeah."

"Mom knew?"

"Long before you did."

Shawn frowned. "And she told you?"

"Married couples talk, Shawn," relented Henry. "We may have had our differences, but one thing we always agreed on was our love for you. She told me when you were younger, asked me to let it go and wait until you found the right time…" He sighed, his shoulders sagging, an air of defeat swirling around him. His gaze drifted south and Shawn could feel him focusing on the bandage. "Had I ever suspected it would come to this I would have spoken or found some way to let you know…" The flash of dismay, of regret in Henry's eyes caught Shawn by surprise. "Should I have spoken up? Should I have let you know that I knew? Did I ever make you feel you couldn't tell me, that I wasn't a safe place to turn? Is that why you turned to Lassiter?"

As the words sank in, his father being far more honest and open with him than ever before, not to mention learning his parents knew all this time, Shawn saw a fraction of the pain dwelling in his heart mirrored in his father's eyes. So caught up in worrying how others might hurt him upon discovering his truth he never gave a moments consideration to how he might be hurting them. A double edged sword. These were people he loved and trusted, people who were always there when he needed them and he kept the a part of himself shielded from them out of fear of rejection.

_They've already accepted me, why can't I see that? All my crazy antics and they've stayed. They always stay._

"I'm sorry," Shawn apologized, tormented by the storm of emotions swirling within. "I should have told you sooner."

"No, Shawn, you have nothing to apologize for," Henry replied, placing a hand on his shoulder, their eyes locking again. "You told me when you were ready. I just wish…"

Shawn held up his bandaged wrist. "It hadn't come to this?"

"Yeah."

"Me too," he practically whispered.

In a blink Henry detached himself, standing. He offered a hand to Shawn. "Come on, let's get you inside. You look tired. Something tells me this night has been especially long for you."

"Yeah." Now that his father mentioned Shawn became acutely aware of the exhaustion lingering around him like the dirt on Charlie Brown's friend Pigpen. As some might say he'd gone through the wringer, worn himself down, and all he wanted now was the comfort of curling up in his childhood bed and losing himself to blissful darkness.

_And maybe when I wake up I'll realize this whole thing was a nightmare and Lassie doesn't know I'm madly in love with him._

Shawn trudged behind his father, hearing the jingle of keys as Henry unlocked the door. Light spilled out. Somewhere down the street a car started up. A bird chirped, a heartbeat later another answered. The world was waking up unaware of the events that transpired in the night. As he crossed the threshold into the comfort of familiarity Shawn realized new problems awaited him. Like telling Gus and O'Hara, then explaining to them why he sported the bandage. He suspected their disappointment would be similar to his dad and Lassie.

"Did you tell Carlton how you feel?" Henry asked, the question drawing Shawn from his concerns.

"Hm?"

"Does Carlton know?"

Shawn nodded, adding a vocal "yeah" for added emphasis.

Henry cracked a smile for the first time since he'd found them sitting on the curb, arriving to whisk him away. "I wonder how he's going to handle that information."

"Why?"

"Haven't you noticed, Shawn?"

"Noticed what?"

"You drive that man crazy."


	10. chapter 10

He lay there staring at the ceiling, his thoughts a swirling mess, as he absently toyed with the bandage on his wrist. Daylight peeked around the curtains, but in Shawn's world things were dark, all doom and gloom while he tried to figure out his next move. If he could simply rewind the clock and go back a day or two, back before he completely fell apart and made such a foolish move.

_Though I wonder, which is worse, the fact that I took a knife to my wrist or letting loose the secret I've held so close for far too long?_

It was a toss up, hard to pick one over the other. The disappointment he'd seen on his father's face, the worry and concern expressed by Lassie, and lest he forget, he'd have to answer the prying questions of his best friend and likely Jules. _And mom, don't forget mom. __There's no way dad doesn't call her about this._ All of that sounded bad enough. But did it pale in comparison to the fact he told Lassie how he felt?

Shawn put his hands to his face, barely choking back a mangled scream. His world was spiraling out of control and he was the pilot.

Where did he go from here?

A jaunty tune spilled forth from his nightstand. Shawn knew it was Gus, who else would it be, and he was torn on whether or not he should answer it. By now he should have been at the office suggesting the swing by the precinct to see if there was anything they could do. Instead he was laying in his childhood bedroom, which wasn't it odd his dad left it like a time capsule? Shouldn't he have emptied out the space and turned it into something else?

The phone fell silent.

Shawn sighed.

_Maybe it's his way of telling me I can always come home, I'm always welcomed here._

The tune started up again.

"You should just answer it."

The sound of his father's voice should have caused Shawn to jump, but he grew up here, he knew the squeak of the stairs, the whisper of socks against the carpet. Shawn moved his fingers, peering through them at his father who stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets as he leaned against the doorframe.

Shawn let out an incomprehensible grumble.

"If you won't, I will."

"Whatever makes you happy." He let his hands fall to his chest, then rolled over, turning his back to his dad.

A heartbeat later the ringing was cutoff. "Hello Gus. Wait, slowdown, take a breath. Gus. Gus, calm down. No, he's right here. I've got him, I assure you, he's okay. Yes, he's here. I'm staring at him right now. I don't think I'll be able to stop you and wouldn't even dream of it. Of course. Yes, see you soon." The sound of the phone hitting the nightstand. "Gus is on his way over."

"Please send him away."

"No, Shawn, I won't. If you want to send your best friend packing, be my guest, but I refuse to do it for you," Henry replied, a hint of anger in his voice. Shawn braced for the mini lecture he knew was about to be delivered. "Do you realize he called in a panic? You didn't clean up the office, Shawn," disbelief dripping from his words, his voice taking on a hollowed, sorrowful tone. "Can you imagine how terrified Gus must have been to walk into... _that?_ Everything the two of you have gone through and you just... You..."

Silence settled in the room, making SHawn acutely aware of his breathing. He kept waiting for his dad to continue, knowing the man was still standing there behind him, but for the first time in what Shawn realized must have been a long time, or perhaps even a first, his dad seemed to be at a loss for words. That was enough to spur him into action, causing him to roll over, proping himself up on his elbows.

And his heart broke a little more, if that was even possible.

The mix of emotions twisting Henry's face, from anguish to sorrow to anger and confusion, it dumped a heavy dose of shame on his shoulders and he flopped back against his pillows.

Finally, Henry shook his head, letting out a sigh of what Shawn could only peg as defeat. "I don't know what else to say, Shawn, I just don't. Everything I've watched you do over the years, all these silly little antics of yours, this fake psychic thing instead of doing legit police work, I've shrugged them off, let them slide, because maybe to some degree I fail to understand it, but your heart has always been in the right place. This time, this time I plain and simple just don't get it."

Henry chose that as his exit, turning and abruptly leaving Shawn alone with his thoughts; which certainly didn't sit well with him. Without realizing he was acting, Shawn snatched up his phone and fired off a text.

It wasn't to Gus, thinking about the fear he caused his best friend was just another dagger to the heart.

It wasn't to Jules, if he could keep her in the dark about the whole incident...

With his phone on his chest, Shawn closed his eyes and prayed with every exhale for it to buzz with a reply. Seconds stretched into eons, or at least it seemed that way. He concentrated on his breathing, listening to the rasp of air moving through his nose, the steady rise and fall of his chest. when his phone finally buzzed it startled him. Had he dozed a little? Perhaps.

Shawn's heart skipped. Did he dare look, did he want to see the response? he bit down on his bottom lip, thinking of the message he hastily typed and shot off._I wish I had succeeded._Shawn brought up the response, bracing himself for a scathing remark, but instead found his eyes stinging with the familiarity of tears.

Lassie: _Please don't ever say that. _


	11. Chapter 11

Blood. Splatters of red against a green shirt, a chest no longer rising with the draw of breath. Deep crimson pooling on the scuffed floorboards. The scent of it was heavy in the air, tickling his senses and churning his stomach. There was nothing notably remarkable about the scene, just another homicide in a long career built on murder and hatred. Yet, something about the room, the position of the body, the sight of the blood, it all hit him differently.

"Carlton?"

Maybe it was the slash of red along the arm, his gaze going back to it time and time again. It conjured up the image of Shawn, the way he found him last night, and jees, had it only been just last night? Why did it feel like forever ago? Of course, his subconscious didn't require much help when it came to recalling a broken and hurt Shawn, it was all still so fresh and he saw it...

"Detective Lassiter?"

Shawn, sitting there on his passenger seat, towel wrapped around his bleeding wrist, the material soaking through much too quickly. Panic began to creep through his chest as he recalled the harrowing race to the hospital, pushing the crown vic to its limit as they flew down the darkened streets. Always there in the back of his mind, what if they didn't make it in time?

What if Shawn died right there, in his car, on the way, because he failed...

Abruptly, Carlton turned on his heel and made a quick exit from the room, breaking out into the brilliant sunshine of the day. He loosened his tie, gulping for oxygen like a drowning man. Panicking, it wasn't the sort of thing he was used to experiencing, not unless one counted that whole debacle with Yang, or had it been Yin, when O'Hara had been tied at the top of the clock tower. _Until last night... Until now._

"Carlton?" O'Hara's worry cut through the weight of his thoughts, dragging Carlton back to the present. A few of the uniformed officers glanced in his direction, but knowing his reputation they were wise enough to keep their mouths shut and find something, anything to do. "Are you okay?"

How did he answer that?

Any attempt he had disappeared with a squeal of tires as Gus's little blue car arrived on the scene, slamming to a stop behind one of the cruisers mere inches from hitting the back bumper. Carlton watched, holding his breath, half hoping to see Shawn pop out and start in on his shenanigans, even if it frustrated and annoyed him. How would the psychic explain away the bandage on his wrist when O'Hara asked about it, which she certainly would? Would he conjure up a lie? Tell her the truth? Shrug off the whole thing as if he hadn't heard her inquiry?

But it wasn't Shawn who appeared, just Gus. A rather disgruntled looking Gus at that, too. Carlton swallowed, a sinking feeling in his gut telling him he was about to have a bad time of things. If only he could make a believable run for it. Carlton started for his car, hoping to at least draw the confrontation to a more private location. If he was going to have to face an angered Gus it was best to do it away from prying ears and try to keep some of Shawn's privacy intact. _And since when do you care so much about him? _He could ask himself that question a million times over, for what good it would do him.

"Carlton, where are going?" O'Hara tagged after him.

"When were you going to tell me?" Gus growled, a fire raging in his eyes the likes of which Carlton had never seen. Where was the Gus he was used to, the one who willingly followed in Shawn's wake, the one who allowed wacky nicknames, allowed himself to be dragged I to any manner of situation because he simply was Shawn's best friend and always would be? Attached at the hip, the two of them. "When?"

Carlton put out a hand, palm facing Gus, trying to force him back down to the curb. They were drawing attention.

"Do you have any idea the hellish morning I've had? Do you!?"

O'Hara stopped at Carlton's side. "Gus, what's going on? Where's Shawn?" She peered around.

"That's the question of the day, isn't it?" Gus said, anger still adding bite to every word. "Hasn't your partner told you? Or did he keep you in the dark, too?"

"What are you talking about?" O'Hara looked at him. "What's he going on about, Carlton? Is it the reason you've been distracted all morning?"

Sweat broke out on his forehead; was it because of the unrelenting sun or the building pressure? Carlton saw two of the officers watching them, no doubt eavesdropping, and he shot a glare in their direction. Then he grabbed Gus by the arm, ignoring his protests as he was direvted a short distance away down the sidewalk.

Gus finally yanked himself free, eyes narrowed. "What the hell-"

"Do you want them, every single one of them, to know? Do you think _Shawn_ wants them to know?" His words shut Gus right quick.

"What is going on?" O'Hara said.

Carlton continued to ignore her. "I'm sorry, okay? It was a... difficult situation. I wasn't thinking straight." Carlton ran a shaky hand through his hair, then, much to his surprise, he sank down onto the stone landscape wall of the house they stood in front of, his knees growing weak. "When he texted me last night I never expected, I didn't, i thought it was another of his stupid jokes." _And that's another terrifying thought. What if I'd kept that train of thought? He'd be... _Carlton let out a strangled cry.

"Imagine being me," Gus said, his tone even, yet full of sorrow and deipping with heart break. "Imagine showing up at the Psych office and finding blood. Only blood."

"Shawn? Are you two talking about Shawn?"

"Do you want to tell her or should I?" Gus asked.

O'Hara brought a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my... Is he?"

Carlton managed to meet her gaze, his heart breaking all over again. _I hate this, I hate feeling this way. _"Last night," he said, keeping his voice low, "Shawn tried to kill himself."


	12. 12

Silence settled over thier group while the city continued to buzz around them. Somewhere down the street a car horn honked followed by a shout. Carlton heard the faint crackle of an officer's radio from the scene he and O'Hara were supposed to be overseeing, and it brought a slice of guilt; since when did he focus on personal matters over police work? What happened to by-the-book Detective Carlton Lassiter? And yet, getting to his feet, going back to the murder, it seemed less important than Spencer, and how could he think something as horrible as that? The person in the house currently swarming with police and attracting more than its fair share of lookie-loos was dead, and last he checked, Spencer was still alive and kicking, despite his attempts otherwise.

Carlton frowned, arms crossed over his chest. He saw O'Hara open her mouth, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but before he let her get a word out, he lobbed a question at Gus. "Why are you here?"

"What?"

"Why are you here? What brought you here? What made you decide to air Spencer's dirty laundry?" With each word his anger grew, a bite edging into his tone. "Do you think that he'd be pleased to know it, that your brandying about privileged information?"

Gus seemed almost flustered. "I...I...wait..."

O'Hara held out her hands, palms down. "Relax, Carlton."

"I want an answer."

"I can't find him," Gus admitted, dancing from foot to foot. "I called him and chewed him out, which in hind sight may not have been the best idea, but come on, I was scared and pissed and it all just came out. He was at Henry's so I told him I was coming over. I wanted to see for myself that he was okay, but when I got there he was gone."

"Gone?" Carlton and O'Hara said in unison.

"Yeah. Gone." Gus shrugged. "When I heard about the murder here I thought, _hoped_, to find him here." He deflated, his shoulders slumping. "He isn't though, is he?"

O'Hara shook her head. "No, and now that you mention it, it seems rather odd." She glanced back over her shoulder at the crime scene, then focused her gaze on him. "Should we be worried? Should we be out looking for him?"

Carlton was still hung up on Gus's statement. _He was gone_. Where could he have taken off to now, and why dis the implication leave such a bad taste in his mouth? Worry settled heavily in his stomach. When he realized the conversation had stopped, Carlton brushed his thoughts aside, finding both of them staring at him, no doubt looking to him for answers. Answers he didn't exactly have to give. This was, admittedly, a little beyond his wheelhouse. If any of them knew where Spencer might go his first guess would be Gus, his best friend, the one who'd been with him for years.

But one look at the young man was enough to clarify he was also feeling overwhelmed and lost. Someone needed to take charge and since Henry wasn't around it looked like that responsibility fell on his shoulders.

"Ok. Here's what we'll do," Carlton said, coming up with the best plan he could while on the spot. "Gus, round up Heney, starr checking out the olaces Spencer frequents. O'Hara, if you're up to it, I'd like you to take lead on this case."

"Um, of course. What are you going to do?"

"Drive around looking for Spencer."

"We'll start at the... Office." Gus said the last word with a mixture of dismay and distress. At least he'd have Henry with him and Spencer's dad was made of tougher stuff. Without further comment, Gus returned to his little blue car, which Carlton wished Spencer was sitting in, and took off.

Carlton turned his focus to O'Hara, but she beat him to the punch, standing up straight, shoulders squared. "Find him. I don't know why he did what he did, but you find him, Carlton, you hear me? I'll take care of this and loop you in later, just make sure Shawn is okay, and let me know, please?"

"Of course." The pain in her tone sent a new wave of cracks across his heart. Sure, to those in the precinct he likely came off as the least caring person in the whole building, maybe even in all of Santa Barbara, but truth be told, he'd just been hurt more times than he cared to count and chose to hide behind the high walls he built. Being a sinic was easier than showing any trace of vunlerabiliry. He knew that for a fact. When it came to O'Hara, he loved her like a sister, especially after all that crap with Yin and Yang when he'd nearly lost her. Carlton gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I may have an idea of where he is, but don't hold me to it."

She gave him a gentle push in the direction of his unmarked cruiser. "Then go get him."

He didn't bother wasting another moment. Bypassing the officers, he climbed behind the steeeing wheel and took off. He toyed with the idea of throwing on the lights and sirens, even if it meant explaining himself to thw chief later. But he resiated the urge, just barely. Carlron deove the overly familair streets leading to his house. Why he thought he'd locate Spwncer there was beyond him, but given the texts, the confession and everything else he figured it couldn't hurt to start there. Spencer reached out to him before, why wouldn't he do something similar a second time?

As he turned down his street, Carlton became acutely aware of each beat his heart took. What if he'd been wrong? What if he got to his house and Shawn wasn't waiting there for him, where would he look next? _Cross that bridge when you get to it. One step at a time, and whatever other cliches you can think of. _

Carlton pulled into his driveway, killing the engine. He steeled himself for the potential... _Of what? _Of anything. No way Spencer would... Not in house... Not here. Right?

But he need not worry for as Carlton hit his porch he spied Spencer sitting against the wall, his knees drawn up, eyes closed.

"Spencer?"

Spencer jumped, eyes popping open. "Lassie." A lazy smile graced his lips. "Welcome home."

"What are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" And then as if someone had thrown a switch, Spencer burst into tears.


	13. Chapter 13

Shawn could tell his outburst was making the detective uncomfortable, so he quickly wiped his tears with the heels of his hands and sniffled. Maybe fleeing his father's house to avoid seeing Gus, to avoid another confrontation and the struggle to understand his actions, which he failed to understand himself, hadn't exactly been the best idea. At least, not in running to this place. Why did it seem like he was doomed to be attracted to a man he aggravated, annoyed, and angered with his sheer existence? Or at least, so it seemed. Why did his heart want the one person he was never going to have?

_I wish I had succeeded_. The thought whispered from the darkness swirling around in his skull. _Maybe I'm a lost cause._

"Spencer."

"I'm sorry," Shawn quickly blurted out, ready to push himself up and flee yet again. "I'll just be-"

"Stop." What might have once been spoken vehemently during a crime scene or while at the precinct was now uttered from the lungs of a man who sounded...tried. It was enough to get him to do exactly as Lassiter wished. He stopped, frozen in place. He waited, wondering what came next. Lassiter sighed, sagging against the porch railing. He rubbed a hand over his face and around to the back of his neck. "Please stop."

A beat passed.

"Okay," he said, unsure of what exactly Lassiter wanted of him. Then again, he didn't exactly know what he wanted of himself. A moment of clouded judgment, a mistake that forever altered the course of his life, brought him, them to this point. And had it accomplished anything? Had it solved the brokenness inside of him? Had it brought him any closer to not only living his truth, but to getting the one thing he desired above everything else? How could he have foolishly let it come to this, to falling head over heels for someone who'd never see him in the same light?

_Moron._

It fit him perfectly.

"You scared Gus," Lassiter said, not bothering to even glance in his direction. The detective stood with his arms crossed over his chest. "He came to the crime scene O'Hara and I were working, all hyped up with concern for you. Right now he's out with your dad driving around Santa Barbara looking for you. I should probably let them know I found you." The last statement came out quietly, an afterthought, but he made no attempt to reach for his phone and make it a reality. "And when I should be helping my partner figure out who murdered some guy in his living room, I'm standing here with you instead."

Was it Lassiter's intention to bury him in guilt, because it was working. Where could he find the rewind button to.go back to that pivatol moment when he grabbed the knife and... Shawn closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. This was his life now, his reality, the bed he'd made and now has to lie in. He'd been through a number of messes in the last few years, everything from being run off the road on his motorcycle to facing down a serial killer who targeted the people he loved. And here he sat like some forlorn puppy dog or something, unable to pull himself up by his boot straps.

Maybe it was time out on his big boy pants, face the consequences of his foolish actions, whatever they might be, and try to get back to a normal life.

But normal, at least as he knew it, was long gone. It was plan as day to see that he'd directly affected his friendships. There was now a new element, one that would undoubtedly crop up whenever he experienced a rough day or showed any signs of being down. They'd all be wondering if he planned to try again.

Shawn stole a sideways glance at Lassiter.

And talk about screwing that up the most. What good came of his declaration of love? If, and that was a fairly strong if, Lassiter exhibited any signs of reciprocation there would be the constant question, an underlying worry that he only did so out of duress. So even the one thing Shawn expected to make him happy would leave him with a lingering unhappiness.

"I should go," Shawn finally said. "I shouldnt be taking up your time. You jave important matters to attend to and it's selfish of me to monopolize your time." He got to his feet, surprised to find he could stand steadily. Maybe he was getting back some of his strength, his resolve. Maybe.

Lassiter laughed, a hearty chuckle that left Shawn with eyebrows raised and an icky feeling in his stomach. Laughter, what kind of reaction was that?

"That's rich, Spencer," he said. "Now, of all times, you worry about monoplozing my time. Never before in all the years we've worked together has it ever been a problem for you. Hell, I often figured you enjoyed frustrating me, upstaging me, and genrally making me look like a hot-headed fool while trying to do my job. But now, now you're concerned with using my time."

Shawn curled his hands into fists, clenching his jaw. "Clearly, coming here was the wrong thing to do."

Of course, the only way off the porch, just short of jumping the railing into some bushes, was to walk passed Lassiter. Which meant being within very close proximity of the man he adored. _Or adored. Somehow I have got to stop wanting him. I never should have let these feelings take hold. Never should have let them dig roots into my heart. And perhaps it's time I consider leaving Santa Barbara. Again._

Back ramrod straight, his intention clear as day, Shawn steuck across the porch, doing his damnedest to avoid even looking at Lassiter. And there's a chance it might have wroked, that he might have gotten free of the porch and started for home, but when he went to take the first step down, his sneakered foot literally hanging in the air, Lassiter, who'd fallen quiet, reached out, stopping Shawn in his path with an arm stretched out in front of him.

"Where do you think you're going?"


	14. Chapter 14

Carlton's heart thundered in his chest. What the hell was he doing stopping Spencer? He should have let the psychic go, got on with his day, gone back to the crime scene and done his job. It wasn't that he didn't trust O'Hara or thought her incapable of completeling the task, she was, after all, a remarkable detective, he'd trained her, he should know. But no, here he stood on his porch with Spencer, preventing him from leaving and questioning his own motives.

"What?" Spencer asked, looking at him quizzically. His eyes were red rimmed, swollen, still glistening with a remnant of tears. He wasn't used to seeing Spencer this way and he loathed the way it made him feel. When was the last time he wanted to take someone in his arms and offer them comfort? _Hell, when was the last time someone actually came to me seeking comfort? I'm not exactly Mr. Warm._ "Are you going to let me leave or...?"

Lassiter curled the fingers of his outstretched hand, effectively cupping Spencer's hip, _and he liked the way it felt._ His stomach flip-flopped and electricity shot up his arm. It's true, quite some time had passed since his last foray into the world of relationships and love, and they'd always been with women. He never entertained the idea of shacking up with a guy, considered himself heterosexual, so what was it about Spencer, admittedly one of the most annoying people he knew, that made him want to break with tradition, so to speak?

"Detective." There was an edge to Spencer's tone, one he wasn't used to, and to be addressed by his title instead of his name or a wacky nickname, it didn't sit right with him.

Carlton ran through a myriad of thoughts in hopes of finding the right words, the right phrases, whatever would be appropriate to convey his feelings. But nothing hit the nail on the head, leaving him to act on impulse. So he did. He practically dragged Spencer into the right position, turning to face him at the same time. And then, with only a slight voice of panic sounding the alarm in his brain, Carlton leaned in for the kiss. If he was going to pursue this--_there's a terrifying idea--_he wanted to be sure it was worth the effort.

As soon as their lips touched, a gentle brush at first, Carlton experienced an odd flutter in his chest, one he couldn't recall having ever felt before, and he liked it so what did that say? He placed his other hand on Spencer's other hip, keeping him close, do ding he enjoyed having Spencer's body close to his own. It filled him with heat, from top to bottom, anf stole his breath away. For a brief moment Carlton tired to imagine it wasn't Spencer he was caught up in a liplock with, but it was hard to keep up the illusion, especially since he could smell Spencer.

He could feel the steady thump in Spencer's chest. And when Spencer placed a hand on the small of his back, electricity. Who knew? All these years he spent rolling his eyes and trying to get Spencer tossed from his cases, was he perhaps attempting to distance himself fro. the younher man in hopes of continuing to hide feelings he hadn't yet been fully aware of? Maybe, if he admitted it to himself, there were times, looking back now, when he caught himself stealing glances of Spencer or while sitting at his desk doing paperwork he waited for the energetic man to come waltzing in declaring he'd had a vision of this or that.

_Stop thinking about what was, focus on what's happening right now. _Spencer's lips were salty from his earlier outburst. Fire ignited in Carlton's stomach and it scared him, this sudden intencity of waiting Spencer.

"Holy crap," a familair voice said, shattering the moment.

As if Spencer was death incarnate, Carlton broke all contact, dropping his hands and stepping away. His gaze shot to the sidewalk. O"Hara stood there with her arms loosely across her chest, jaw hanging open. Maybe he should reconsider her detective skills if this sort of thing surprised her, but then again, hadn't he been caught just as off guard?

"Jules," Spencer said by way of greeting. Carlton liked the huskiness of his voice, wondered if it developed the same quality in the bedroom. Was that heat he rushing to his cheeks? Impossible, he _never_ blushed. Carlton Lassiter was not a blusher. Absolutely not.

O'Hara take a few steps up the walkway toward them. "Did I just see you and you..." She pointed from one to the other, then shook her head. "Not possible."

Carlton swallowed. He massaged the back of his neck.

"What brings you by, Jules?"

She blinked and eyed them both a second time before answering. "Carlton was supposed to be out looking for you and to let me know if he found you. Your dad and Gus are searching, too, and they hadn't seen you when I checked in. My attempts to reach Carlton went unaswered so I figured I'd swing by, see if he was here, totally didn't expect to see you two...doing that."

Spencer frowned. "Do you have a problem with it?"

The directness of the question shocked Carlton. How could Spencer be crying moments ago and so bold now? As if things weren't bad enough, Henry and Gus pulled up at that exact moment in Henry's truck. They piled out of the car just in time to catch Jules say:

"With my partner and my friend kissing?"

Gus stepped up beside her. "Wait, come again? Did you just say these two were kissing?"

"Yeah, can you believe it?" she asked, her tone natural. "I mean, it's cool, right, we're all cool with this. I think. Right?"

Gus broke out in a big grin. "'Bout damn time."


End file.
